


All Lovers Find Their Homes

by oneforyourfire



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-08
Updated: 2016-08-08
Packaged: 2018-08-07 10:54:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7712221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oneforyourfire/pseuds/oneforyourfire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And yes, a Monday indulgence that they haven’t indulged in too, too long. (high school teachers get frisky au)</p>
            </blockquote>





	All Lovers Find Their Homes

**Author's Note:**

> content warnings for: implicit homophobia (both internalized and externalized), baby gay middle schoolers, sex tears, orgasm control, hair pulling, biting

Chanyeol’s head bumps against the top shelf of the supply closet, and he laughs—too loud, dangerously so. Kyungsoo presses against him, tries to swallow it whole, and Chanyeol follows his laugh with a moan, also too loud, also too dangerous. Melting back against the jutting shelves, eager for more, his fingers tangle in Kyungsoo's carefully-styled hair.

It's only 10 AM. Chanyeol's already finished homeroom duties, taught 6th graders how to count beats in a pop song, had them practice keeping time with their pencils and hands before letting them use the _buk_. Chanyeol's on his prep period at the moment, supposed to be planning out next week's lessons, answering emails, tuning guitars, recalibrating keyboards, writing the lesson objectives on the white board, laying out the workbooks for incoming students, doing _any_ number of productive things that don't involve Kyungsoo's tongue in his mouth, Kyungsoo's thigh between his legs, Kyungsoo's hands at shoulders. But this is a Monday morning indulgence, after all. And they've been so busy. Chanyeol, Kyungsoo haven't indulged in so _long_.

Chanyeol had wandered in here ostensibly searching for more pens, but oh _God_ , Kyungsoo’s mouth feels too good like this, his fingers molding into the strain of Chanyeol's biceps beneath his pressed shirt.

This is an _enriching academic environment that fosters learning and student growth_ , their brochures and website proclaim, _the fine institution staffed with the most well-equipped teachers, guided by a finely-tuned philosophy of intellectual, physical, moral, and social excellence_. Here—like this.

This is forbidden and dangerous and reckless and maybe all the hotter because of it.

Kyungsoo, chiding, responsible, careful, straitlaced Mr. Do, with his polka-dotted ties and crisp pressed shirts and nondescript coffee mug, he's still crowding into him, seeking this out. And Kyungsoo is letting his plush lips fall open, urgent and oh so warm and soft beneath Chanyeol's. Kyungsoo is kissing him hard and deep and dirty like he's fucking drowning, like he's aching for this, too.

And Chanyeol, he can't help but moan and tremble and drink in every sinful roll of Kyungsoo's tongue, press back towards every sinful roll of Kyungsoo's hips, rendered hopelessly loud beneath the heavy, heady, hot attention.

Sounds echo in these hallways and Kyungsoo—Chanyeol, too, honestly, if he lets his thoughts unfog from the plush, dark promise of Kyungsoo’s lips—doesn’t want to get caught, but _fuck_ again, just like that, again, please, please, please.

Kyungsoo tugs once on his hair—a warning, an almost reward, and Chanyeol lets himself fall further pliant in his grasp, legs nearly buckling as he grinds forward onto Kyungsoo's tense thigh. He wants to beg for him to keep going, wants for Kyungsoo to bite his way across his throat, swirl his tongue into the dip of Chanyeol’s collarbone beneath his too tight tie—It’s a serious job, he’d informed his parents proudly, after being placed, I have to wear a tie and a blazer—but he hisses instead, settles for arching in blatant invitation.

More, more, more, please, Kyungsoo.

He pouts only slightly when Kyungsoo pulls away, trembling, breathing hard and unsteady through his kiss-swollen lips. "We have to," Kyungsoo insists, voice wavery but tone somehow still firm. "We have to stop."

There are no cameras here, but they still have to be quiet, still shouldn't risk it. It's getting too risky. Fuck, please, Chanyeol.

Kyungsoo repeats the reminder in a strained whisper as he rights Chanyeol's tie and his own, focused on the task at hand and not meeting his eyes. His fingers are nimble, and his cheeks are only slightly flushed. His slightly strained breathing, his plush, ruddy lips, the only tells.

And Kyungsoo always seems to recover quicker, stop more easily, want less obviously, need less desperately, feel less, feel in a way that is safer.

But there's a fondness in the way his thumb skates up Chanyeol's jawline, bypassing his ear, settling to rub soothingly on the sensitive skin just beneath. He smiles, and Chanyeol's heart pulses with affection.

Groping clumsily—affected, affected like Chanyeol—on the highest shelf for the calligraphy pens, Kyungsoo leaves first.

Chanyeol follows a few seconds later, reaching for extra pencil tops, trying to gather himself further. He rests his hand against a flyer, severe black on severe white, reminders of their duties as students at this fine institution: respect their shared facilities, respect their fellow students, be mindful of their language, do all things to honor their Creator.

The words itch against his palm, and Chanyeol shifts, rights a thumbtack flyer for the upcoming Boy's Choir recital.

Satisfied, breathing just a little steadier, he trudges back to his office, to his own duties. Planning next week's lessons, responding to emails, tuning guitars, recalibrating keyboards, writing the lesson objectives on the whiteboard, laying out the workbooks for incoming students. All in a all, a productive use of time. His coffee is hot enough, bitter enough to almost drown out the lingering taste of Kyungsoo's toothpaste, lip balm in his mouth.

 

Prep is followed by Chanyeol's 7 and 8th grade classes, back to back, piano and then guitar.

The 7th graders are reviewing notes, meters, practicing their scales on their class-issued keyboards. They're rowdy, excitable, and Chanyeol has to ask his most skilled, most rowdy, most excitable student—a makeshift human metronome at 40 kilos—to tap out the beats aloud as his classmates struggle to keep proper time, fingers still too clumsy, the sounds they produce entirely discordant and grating.

Chanyeol asks them to practice with their headphones next, striding around the classroom to correct posture, finger positions, offer words of encouragement.

Minseok is four pages ahead of his peers, playing a simplified “When the Saints Go Marching In,” fingers still clumsy, stiff, a stumbling fawn new on its feet. He's Chanyeol's favorite, smiles like he knows it when Chanyeol gives him a thumbs up.

 

8th grade guitar follows, the students granted further freedom, allowed to their own devices after Chanyeol reviews proper technique, the chords they've learned.

Chanyeol watches them, intervenes only occasionally.

And they hold hands sometimes, his students. Kiss cheeks, whisper secrets, exchange shy glances, serenade one another pitchy and out of tune but earnest, too, their cheeks flushed and eyes bright with the blooming maybe-affection. And Chanyeol tunes another guitar as he watches, heart aching as he drinks in their bumbling exchange. Sehun serenades him with a stuttering version of “Three Little Birds,” and Jongin buries his smile into the sleeve of his starched white polo, blushed cheek brushing over the severe black of his uniform tie.

Chanyeol, he’d admitted it to himself long ago, had known it meant something more to him—the lingering touches, shy smiles, soft words. But he hadn’t known, at first hadn’t been brave enough to see if it meant something more for them, too. He’d instead gorged himself on sleepover cuddles, secret notes, soft fingers running through his scalp, soft hands laced with his own, aching but too scared to put it into words.

But it hadn’t, he’d found it, after one breathless, stuttered almost confession.

Because in the end, it was just—just because they were both desperate for affection, and no, the point wasn't to actually want boys—didn't Chanyeol like girls, too? Want them more? Weren't girls what they wanted? Weren't girls who they were practicing for—right, Chanyeol, right?

Because it hadn't meant anything. Then. At least for the other person. Hadn’t meant what it had meant to Chanyeol.

But it does with Kyungsoo. It has for a while. He knows; he’s asked.

And Chanyeol resists the nearly overwhelming urge to text Kyungsoo and ask for truly unnecessary confirmation after dismissing his class.

 

They have lunch duty on Mondays, are asked to sit on opposite ends of the cafeteria, separated by chairs, tables, the clatter of spoons, chopsticks, the ambient chatter of young voices. Chanyeol scans the area absently, and those same boys from earlier, Sehun and Jongin, they're sitting next to each other, laughing, legs occasionally bumping beneath the table. Jongin playfully shoves dumpling-laden chopsticks into Sehun's mouth, laughing as the other flushes.

And Chanyeol, swallowing the spike of sudden dread, despair clawing up his throat, he casts a longing glance in Kyungsoo’s direction. And he's soothed, smiles helplessly when Kyungsoo flushes and smiles into his spoonful of white rice. Another longing glance, this one purposefully hotter, Chanyeol letting his mouth fall open, his eyelids fall heavy, and Kyungsoo's fingers tremble, just the slightest around his chopsticks.

There are cameras here, and Chanyeol is always too honest, always too fucking obvious, Kyungsoo insists every time Chanyeol casts a lingering—too honest, too raw—glance in his direction.

They're too easy to intercept, he’s scolded. I can feel all your love fucking radiating off of you, Chanyeol. They can, too. Mine, too.

But assuaged, placated, Chanyeol drops his gaze, finishes his lunch, focusing instead on the Pokemon battle two tables over, the rap battle happening one table to the left.

 

The last periods of the day have Chanyeol rehearsing with the boy's choirs. 6th grade first, in preparation for their upcoming recital, 8th graders after for their class musical Hungbo and Nulbu.

Kyungsoo is just next door for the next two hours. He’s teaching his 6th grade world survey class, then has a prep period immediately after.

Kyungsoo spares Chanyeol a friendly greeting as his children shuffle into the room.

They're Kyungsoo's hardest, the 6th graders, Kyungsoo has grumbled on multiple occasions. Chanyeol had visited once last semester, during their survey of ancient Greek society, had played his pan flute as they boys had watched, listless and none-too-impressed. It had been utterly demoralizing, one of Chanyeol’s worst moments as a teacher.

It’s Kyungsoo's every Monday.

There are cameras here—in the hallways, and Kyungsoo only reaches out to squeeze his hand, thumb grazing his knuckles, soft, affectionate. And Chanyeol briefly contemplates the dire consequences of falling to his knees and thanking Kyungsoo for loving him back with his mouth, with his eyes, with the heavy-lidded enthusiasm that always always leaves Kyungsoo gasping and utterly distracted.

But he squeezes back instead, tries to communicate with that simple touch, just how much he believes in him, just how much he cares, just how much he’ll try to make it up to him tonight.

Kyungsoo’s smile almost reaches his eyes.

 

Chanyeol is afforded one prep period after school, enough time for him to refill his coffee thermos, arrange two extra tutoring sessions, start to fill out assessments for three graduating 8th graders.

Then Chanyeol has rehearsal with the leads in the musical for an hour. Afterwards, a private lesson with one Byun Baekhyun, who is hoping to get into a performing arts high school, needs some help still with his technique, his nerves.

There is a staff meeting immediately afterwards. Over coffee, donuts, they discuss the upcoming musical, revised curriculum standards, upcoming qualifying exams. Then there are more mundane calls for teachers to be on time, submit their weekly reports, smile like they mean it, teach like they mean it. These children deserve it.

Chanyeol doodles aimless shapes on the margins of his planner as the principal drones on about how they need to remember that they're beacons of proper behavior, need to demonstrate it. They shouldn’t be caught cursing, Mr.Kim. Shouldn't discuss their personal lives with their impressionable students, Mr. Cha.

Mr. Kim—Joonmyun hyung, who'd cursed because one of the 8th grade boys had had a chemistry accident and set Joonmyun's pants on fire; cursing had been a heat of the moment, heat of the fire situation, Chanyeol knew—also doodles. Bubble letters. His name in Hangul, in the Roman Alphabet, in what might be Japanese, Chanyeol can't really see from this angle. Meanwhile, Kyungsoo across from him, furrows his eyebrows and bites his lip and swallows heavily like when he’s nervous. He is—about teacher evaluations, the option to stay for another year.

The meeting adjourns with a prayer, a call for teachers to please help themselves, there are plenty of leftover donuts.

 

The meeting is held in Kyungsoo's homeroom, and Chanyeol lingers behind as the other teachers shuffle out of the classroom, laden with cardboard boxes and paper coffee cups.

Kyungsoo and Chanyeol are officially, openly roommates, close friends saving money. They even own separate beds for the sake of appearances, and Chanyeol is in the right lingering by the blackboard after the meeting, asking him if he's ready to go home yet, only the slightest innuendo seeping into his tone.

Kyungsoo nods absently from his desk, a tired smile tugging at the edge of his lips as Chanyeol grins at him. Kyungsoo continues to right the folders on his desk, pack his messenger bag, and Chanyeol leans more heavily against the blackboard then, the pressed cotton of his white shirt, dragging, staining with residual chalk from Kyungsoo’s earlier lesson.

“Hurry up and come home with me, Kyungsoo.” Heavier innuendo this time, forbidden and dangerous and reckless, and only just slightly cheesy.

Kyungsoo’s smile brightens slightly at the comment but still not enough for Chanyeol’s taste, still too wary and entirely too Monday-evening-strained.

And Chanyeol contemplates touching him, then, dragging his thumb over corner of Kyungsoo’s pursed lips, pressing insistently until Kyungsoo’s forced into a begrudging smile, more begrudging laughter. He thinks also about holding his hand or hooking his chin over the crown of Kyungsoo’s head and breathing him in, forcing him to melt into the softer Kyungsoo that Chanyeol loves most. But Chanyeol decides against it, shoves his hands into the pockets of his slacks instead, watching, causing the frayed strap of his messenger bag to bounce as he rocks on the balls of his feet.

 

They hold hands on the 18-minute subway, Kyungsoo leaning steady and quiet and pensive and tense against his side, tracing absent patterns across Chanyeol’s knuckles with his thumb. His thumbnail occasionally drags against the webbing between Chanyeol’s thumb and index finger, and his ass brushes against Chanyeol’s crotch on every skidding stop.

Chanyeol tucks his chin, shuddering against his own bicep some 3 stops in as Kyungsoo’s lolls his neck to the side, his pale, delicate throat jumping as he hums along to the song they are both listening to through their shared earphones. His hand tightens tellingly, ass brushes more deliberately, then, and there’s a quiet sort of authority in the set of his jaw.

And yes, a Monday indulgence that they haven’t indulged in too, too long.

Subtle or at least trying to be, Chanyeol wraps his free arm around Kyungsoo’s waist, grinds against him small and tight. Kyungsoo’s throat jumps as he swallows, lets himself be guided—at least for the time being—into something risky, but minute.

“Let me fuck you,” Chanyeol almost whispers. “Ride me until I’m gasping and begging to come.”

Instead, he drags his nose up the back of Kyungsoo’s skull, breathing ragged and hot across scalp.

 

They hardly make it past the door before Kyungsoo’s got his hand fisted in the hair at the nape of Chanyeol’s neck, his lips latched to Chanyeol’s throat. Kyungsoo moves hard, fast, agonizingly enthusiastic, pinning Chanyeol against the wall by the shoulders, by the hips as his warm, plush lips drag over Chanyeol's sensitive skin. Kyungsoo sucks there, bites there as Chanyeol shudders, slumps, tangles his fingers in Kyungsoo's hair in hazy-minded encouragement.

"Kyungsoo," he gasps, too strained, too fast. And Kyungsoo's fingers scrape across his collar, twist into his tie as Kyungsoo sucks along his jawline. His deft fingers tug Chanyeol's tie free, hard and fast and rough enough for Chanyeol to have trouble breathing. But it's just the way he likes it, and he lets himself be pinned, kissed, bitten, touched, upsetting picture frames, their shoe rack as he grinds back with a frayed wanting sound.

He's not quite hard yet, but Kyungsoo seems intent on remedying that, scraping his teeth over the jut of his sternum, breathing hard and wet into Chanyeol's skin as his fingers pop open his buttons, drag beneath pooled fabric. And his touch is suddenly teasing, light, has Chanyeol pressing back eager and needy, taking what Kyungsoo will give him, demanding more, but knowing he's helpless to Kyungsoo's mercy, helpless to his control.

"Kyungsoo," Chanyeol repeats, but it's closer to a whine this time, tapering off at the end with an unsteady hitch of breath as Kyungsoo's fingers drag along the waistband of his pants, tiptoe over the strain of his zipper. And his own clumsy fingers drag down Kyungsoo's hair, settle on his shoulders, restless thumbs rumpling the fabric of his shirt as Kyungsoo's fingers press down slightly harder, skating then fanning, tracing the entirety of his cock with a lazy stroke, lazier hum.

Chanyeol's much, much closer to hard now, pressing back into the touch, dragging hot and desperate over Kyungsoo's hand, across the thigh that Kyungsoo's pressed between his legs.

His skull crashes back against the wall with a loud moan when Kyungsoo presses his fingers, his thighs more firmly, jaw slackening and muscles tensing as the pleasure jolts up his spine. Kyungsoo presses again, even harder, more lingering, and as he shifts, mouths at his chest, Chanyeol groans at the distinct pressure of Kyungsoo's cock against his thigh. Hard, too. Wanting, too.

Yes, yes, yes.

Kyungsoo tugs Chanyeol's pants, his boxers loose. Chanyeol stumbles free, reaches out for Kyungsoo once more.

"Fuck me," he moans, implores hips lifting, twisting, to press his hips flush against Kyungsoo's, press his cock flush against Kyungsoo's. He relishes in Kyungsoo's soft groan. Greedy for it, he repeats the motion twice, thrice, underscoring every grind with a breathy _fuck me_ until Kyungsoo pins his hips to the wall, nips at his nipple in quiet warning. "Please," Chanyeol begs then. "Please—please fuck me. Kyungsoo, let me just—let me just—"

His plea cuts off with a broken whimper as Kyungsoo tangles his fingers in his hair, worries Chanyeol's nipple between his beautiful, soft, plush lips.

Yes, yes, yes.

And hand in his hair once more, lips at Chanyeol's chest, Kyungsoo tugs him towards the bedroom, stumble-dragging, murmuring quiet maybe-praises—so eager, so easy, so good—into Chanyeol's skin.

And Chanyeol is curling towards his punishing caress, arching into the sting of Kyungsoo's fingers in his hair, his jaw slack and eyelashes fluttering rapidly as his spine bows, legs tremble.

Eager, easy, good. Just exactly how Kyungsoo likes him.

Shivers wrack up his spine, heavy and utterly debilitating, and all-too-soon Chanyeol is collapsing back into the mattress with a helpless moan as Kyungsoo crawls over him, looming and gorgeous and dark with promise. Naked and trembling, Chanyeol clambers out for more, fingers curling, lips seeking as Kyungsoo noses up his chest, breathes along his throat, his jawline, his ear.

Chanyeol shudders heavily once more, and Kyungsoo smirks against his skin, spares a lazy bite before kissing his cheekbone, his nose.

Kyungsoo's still fully dressed, disheveled hair and rumpled fabric the only tells. Not nearly enough tells. And Chanyeol twists his fingers into Kyungsoo's tie, none too graceful as he tugs it free. He peels off Kyungsoo's shirt, too, manages to get his pants open enough to touch him, stroking slow and steady, testing. Kyungsoo presses into his touch, eyelashes fluttering and lips parting at the pressure.

“ _Fuck_ me," Chanyeol repeats. "Please, please fuck me. Want to feel good. You always make me feel good. Please."

Kyungsoo's pressed so tight, so close, that his responding tremor wracks through Chanyeol, too. Only serves to ruin him further.

Mondays are hardest on him, harder yet as they approach the end of the year, and Kyungsoo is rougher on these days, exerting his control like this, Chanyeol only too eager to provide, be pliant and perfect for his sake. His own, too.

He cants his hips up, so he drags against Kyungsoo's bared stomach on every inhale, the barest friction, but the most he'll allow himself at the moment, his fists twisting in their sheets at every feather-light drag against pulsing, aching flesh.

"Fuck me," he whimpers this time. “ _Please_ fuck me."

And Chanyeol's arm flails in the general direction of their condoms, lube, a graceless hint. Kyungsoo smiles this time, soft and still tired, but fond, special, stamped into his chin.

He kisses him afterwards, for the first time since this morning, soft but still demanding, in control, and Chanyeol melts into it, moaning into Kyungsoo’s warm, wet, perfect mouth when Kyungsoo shifts minutely atop him, knocks something over—probably that sugar cookie candle they keep on their nightstand—in his blind grope for supplies.

Yes, yes, yes.

Kyungsoo disengages with a lazy hum, a brief kiss to his jawline, then he crawls down Chanyeol's body with heart-stuttering intent, nipping, scraping, sucking, licking.

Chanyeol trembles in anticipation, trepidation.

But for now, Kyungsoo seems content to go at Chanyeol's pace, at least in this, easy and efficient, stroking him open with deliberate thrusts of his fingers, his lips meanwhile teasing over Chanyeol's quaking thighs, up, around, a hot hum of a laugh ghosting over the base of Chanyeol's cock.

Chanyeol blinks up at him through quaking thighs, a heaving chest, and Kyungsoo's gaze turns predatory.

He trembles more helplessly then, all taut muscles, arousal-laced tension, and Kyungsoo's touch turns deliciously, relentlessly cruel, fingers fanning, pressing hard.

Chanyeol starts to beg three fingers in, ragged and desperate. Sobs a dozen thrusts in, grinding back mindlessly, groping clumsily at Kyungsoo's shoulders, his hair, a needy mantra of _fuck me, please please please_ spilling from his lips at every push, after every retreat, with every excruciatingly perfect curl.

"Ready?" Kyungsoo asks, strained, hot, husky, against Chanyeol's hipbone, like Chanyeol hasn't been begging, clawing, sobbing for it this whole time.

He nods jerkily, nonetheless, clambering out for him as Kyungsoo kicks off his pants, strokes his cock lazily.

And Chanyeol is too ruined at this point to fake it, desperation lacing every syllable as he moans Kyungsoo's name.

Kyungsoo squeezes his hips as he maneuvers his body. Tight, hard, hopefully enough to leave bruises, beautiful blooming reminders that he was loved so hard, so thorough that his blood vessels burst. And he's so hard, his cock bounces as he falls back into the mattress, legs spreading and head lolling back in invitation, instigation.

On Mondays, Chanyeol isn't allowed to touch himself, barely allowed to touch Kyungsoo, exhorted to feel—feel it all, all that Kyungsoo is giving him, all the delicious control that Kyungsoo wields.

Utterly helpless, he twists his fingers into the mattress , lip caught between his teeth, muscles rippling with the want—the _need_ —to come already.

Kyungsoo's also so hard his cock bobs as he moves over him, and _fuck_ Chanyeol just wants him inside of him again. Right now.

"Please."

Kyungsoo positions himself over Chanyeol’s body, arms bracketing his sides, skin warm and soft against Chanyeol’s quivering thighs. He presses inside with a slow steady, whimper-inducing push, centimeter by aching centimeter, Chanyeol aware of every glorious pulse as Kyungsoo bottoms out, pants against his chin.

"Feels so good," Kyungsoo manages around a heavy shudder, breathy groan. "Always feel so good like this, Chanyeollie."

Chanyeol flushes, whimpers, implores.

Kyungsoo sets a slow, deep, dragging pace, hips colliding hard, perfect against Chanyeol's ass on every thrust, and Chanyeol dissolves into a series of staccato moans, desperate bucks for harder, faster, more, more, more.

And it's too much, but in the most perfect way, Kyungsoo’s urgent thrusts, his breathless moans, the scrape of his fingers, the sear of his breath, the stretch of his cock, the beautiful hard hard way his face twists with pleasure.

It's so much, just just just the right amount to have Chanyeol’s body shortcircuiting. Pushed past the threshold of pleasure into something so thick it steals his breath, claws at his consciousness, leaves him utterly ruined and still somehow desperate for more.

Chanyeol can feel the tears leaking out of the corner of his eyes, hot and sticky and wet as they drag down his cheeks, disappear into his sweaty hairline. He can hear the utter ruin of his own whimpers. He can feel the desperate ripple of every single nerve-ending screaming out from pure, pure pleasure as he claws and clamors and curses for more, more, more.

So close, so close, so close.

Chanyeol tugs helplessly at Kyungsoo’s hair, bites helplessly on the straining muscles of his arms as he stumbles closer and closer and closer. Pleasure sings through his veins, nearly drowning him, but not not not yet, not without being told.

"Want to—please, please let me," he hiccups, maybe sobs, "Let me come. Please."

Kyungsoo's lips part with a ruined groan, and he snaps harder against Chanyeol’s thighs at that, a deliciously beautiful collision of skin against trembling skin, and Chanyeol dissolve further, into breathless whimpers, clumsy, clawing fingers, thick, sobbing moans. His legs tremble heavy and helpless around Kyungsoo’s waist.

“Please,” he manages, a desperate rasp of a plea. “Please. Please. Want to come. Need to come."

And Kyungsoo shudders at that, lip catching between his teeth. His cock drags searing, just just right, and Chanyeol sobs more openly, more hot tears collecting on his fluttering eyelashes as he fights to keep his eyes open. Wants to see the quiet way that Kyungsoo is ruined by this, too, the gratitude shining beneath the burning authority.

"Please," he rasps. "Please."

And Kyungsoo’s fingers slide down to grasp as Chanyeol’s cock, stroking sloppy and fast as Chanyeol sobs out a broken yes, yes, please.

Kyungsoo bites down hard on the juncture between his neck and shoulder, high, high enough that it will burn beneath his tie, come morning time.

The thought of that, along with the glorious stretch of Kyungsoo’s cock inside his body, the persistent pressure of Kyungsoo’s thumb on the crown of Chanyeol’s cock on every upstroke—just just just shy of too rough, too tight, too much—it has Chanyeol coming. Long, loud, surrendering to the fathomless waves of orgasm with a lilting whine, a full body tremor.

Chanyeol recovers to the stuttering grind of Kyungsoo's final thrust. His hips jumping, his cock pulses hot and deep, and his moan falls heavy and hot and perfect on Chanyeol's chest as he trembles through the intensity of it.

Chanyeol lets his limbs fall looser, more open, a warm, willing cradle as Kyungsoo collapses onto him. His lips latch absently on Chanyeol's sternum, and Chanyeol drags his fingers delicately own the length of Kyungsoo's sweaty, scratched spine, whispering his name reverent and soft.

They'll also burn beneath his clothes at work, too, Chanyeol knows, a reminder for him, too, and Kyungsoo, soft and sated and spent, arches into the brush of his fingertips, lips curling into a smile from where they're pressed against his chest.

"So reckless," he chides softly, like Chanyeol's chest, waist, aren't littered with blooming bruises, phantom bites. "Just exactly why I love you," he continues, a hummed afterthought, and Chanyeol knows that Kyungsoo can feel the way his chest heats, hitches at the words.

"I love you,too," he says, fingers tiptoeing back to curl behind Kyungsoo's skull, cradling there as his thumb brushes over his throat. Kyungsoo’s hair brushes against his eyes in sweaty tendrils, and he’s too beautiful for Chanyeol to look away.

Kyungsoo shifts minutely, pressing into the touch, his chin resting on Chanyeol's ribs as he smiles up at him, slow and beautiful. Tired, but in a good work out, good fuck, relieved tension sort of a way. No longer wary. No hint of Monday-evening-strain. A mission accomplished.

It looks good on him, but Chanyeol still presses his thumb into the corner to make it brighter, make it bigger, make it reach his eyes. Kyungsoo, tokenly begrudging, relents.

Kyungsoo slides free then, the sound slick, sloppy, lube on latex on skin, and he grimaces just slightly.

He presses an absent kiss, a whispered _thank you_ to Chanyeol's jawline before tying off the condom, disposing of it in the trashcan by their bed.

"Dinner?" Chanyeol proposes, legs parting in anticipation of the wipes that Kyungsoo drags over his skin. Along his thighs, over his rim, up to clean off the drying come—his own—against his navel. Loving and slow.

"Yes, dinner," Kyungsoo agrees, dropping the wipes in the trashcan, too. “Shower first, though, then take out.”

That’s a more familiar Monday night indulgence, welcome and comforting, and Chanyeol lets himself be pulled, pushed, guided. Lax and loose-limbed in the receding waves of afterglow, he’s dragged beneath the steaming spray, melting against their tiled walls as Kyungsoo hums absently and washes.

A perfect Monday night.

**Author's Note:**

> another double crosspost, from awalkinthepark and my lj comm


End file.
